


A Graveyard Reunion

by ElliahRose



Series: A guide to Parenting and Villainy [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: ...but not really, AU Goblet of Fire, Barty and Harry become best friends, Barty doesn't understand anything even remotely muggle, Gen, Harry Potter is Confused, He's soft for Harry but he can still cut a bitch, Manic Tom Riddle, OOC Voldemort - Freeform, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Obsessive Voldemort, Or really really good parenting, Poor Harry Potter, Possessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Precious Harry Potter, Protective Voldemort, Side Story, Soft Voldemort, Sort Of, The Order of Phoenix is literally losing their minds, Unhealthy Relationships, Voldemort Adopts Harry Potter, Voldemort cackles while they panic, Voldemort is Harry Potter's Parent, Voldemort would do anything for Harry Potter, bad parenting?, it depends on how you look at it - Freeform, like to a scary degree, someone get this mans some therapy, that's actually an understatement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliahRose/pseuds/ElliahRose
Summary: The real reason Voldemort murdered the Potters was not so that he could kill Harry, but so that he could adopt Harry as his own. It all goes wrong, but perhaps Voldemort can finally get his family at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament?Meanwhile, Harry has no idea how he ended up being kind of kidnapped by the man who murdered his parents. Said man who only wants to become Harry's new dad.Side story to 'The Little One with Green Eyes'
Relationships: Bartemius Crouch Jr. & Harry Potter, Harry Potter & Voldemort, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Series: A guide to Parenting and Villainy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734274
Comments: 80
Kudos: 1059
Collections: Harry Potter, Harry Tom parental





	1. Reunion

**Author's Note:**

> This story was requested by LivingDeaDGirl244.  
> Thanks so much for the request, I had a lot of fun with this! I hope you enjoy! :)

**_-October 31 1980-  
Godric Hollow_ **

Voldemort stared down at the child, his eyes wide with wonder. It was a small thing, shaggy black hair and tiny body wrapped in a red onesie displaying the words ‘ _Daddy’s Boy_ ’ in gold lettering. The child looked up at Voldemort with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. They truly were the color of the bright killing curse that Voldemort was so fond of. Beautiful… 

The child stared at him, and Voldemort prepared himself for the god-awful screeching that infants were known for, and was surprised when instead, the child giggled. It was a tinkling sound, almost like soft bells. It was full of wonder and joy---so contrasting to the grim situation the child was in the middle of. 

It had been quite a long time since Lord Voldemort had heard such a joyful laugh in his presence. His followers---Voldemort used such a term lightly, as they were more akin to mindless sheep then they were actual comrades---never made such a noise near him. The closest they could come to would be the pathetic, fearful whimpering. 

It was refreshing and only further cemented the thought that this baby, Harry James Potter, was _perfect_ for him. 

The obsession (As Nagini claimed it was) had started only four months prior. He’d been given a report from his most loyal, Severus Snape, of a prophecy foretelling his destruction. Voldemort, of course, had been hesitant to accept such a thing. After all, how could something as weak as a _baby_ defeat him, the Great Lord Voldemort? 

But, being the thorough and attentive Lord he was, Voldemort followed up on the claims. The only two families that fell under the prophecies' limitations were the Longbottoms and the Potters. 

The Longbottoms were a long-standing Pure-Blood family, notoriously light in all conceivable ways. Voldemort had sent his spies to see what the child looked like, and Voldemort had scoffed at the memory. Tiny, chubby, completely inattentive to the world around him. No, Neville Longbottom was not his equal and could not defeat him. 

The Potters, on the other hand, showed some promise. While they too, were a Pure-Blood family, James Potter had married and conceived a child with a Mudblood, producing a Half-Blood heir---much like himself.

Voldemort had dismissed the small similarity between himself and the Potter heir, but when the spy he sent to look at the child returned, everything changed. 

The Potter child was perfect in every way. 

The similarities between himself and the child were plentiful and so, so incredible. The child had a similar facial structure to a young Tom Riddle, and his emerald eyes were so bright and full of life! Curious about everything around it. Voldemort was sure that Harry Potter could pass off as the child of Tom Riddle. 

The child of Tom Riddle… 

Suddenly the idea seemed very pleasing. It reminded Voldemort of his lonely days in the Orphanage, oh so many years ago, where the young Tom Riddle had curled in on himself and pleaded for a family. For someone to love and call his own. So that Tom Riddle might never be alone. 

As he had grown older, Tom Riddle turned up his nose at the idea, hardened by the many lonely years. He became cold, ruthless and powerful---everything that a young Tom Riddle had wanted to become. 

Yes, Lord Voldemort had succeeded in granting and becoming everything the young Tom Riddle had ever dreamed of… All except one. He had never managed to fill the gaping void in Tom Riddle’s chest. (Voldemort would not call it love, for that would be too Dumbledore.)

Both Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort had no family to call their own. No one to cherish and protect, and no one to stay with for the rest of their immortal days. 

What was the saying? Immortality is very lonely with no one to share it with. 

And so the obsession with Harry Potter---soon to be Harry Slytherin , son of the great Lord Voldemort---began. 

Voldemort had made the necessary arrangements for Harry to be brought home with him. He was just preparing to move when he found out that the Potters had been put under a fidelius. He had raged for days---no Death Eater escaped his wrath. 

Likewise, when his spy had come forth and given him the Potters address, he had rejoiced. (As much as the great Lord Voldemort could rejoice.) 

Now finally, _finally_ , after all this time, Voldemort would have his child. 

“Hello, Little One,” Voldemort cooed, lowering his wand into it’s holster. His baby looked up at him and giggled once more---paying no mind to his dead mother sprawled out on the floor. “I’ve missed you…” 

Voldemort stepped quickly to the crib where his son sat, and moved to lift his baby. Finally, after all this time, Voldemort would be complete. His forbidden dream of having a family of his own would finally be realized. 

“Step away from the boy, Tom.” 

_Blinding fury._

“Dumbledore!” he hissed, his eyes flashing crimson, as he saw the old man who stood between him and his son. 

“You’ve killed his parents,” Dumbledore said, his eyes holding sadness and pity. “Why have you doomed a child to be an orphan? Why would you doom him to be just like you?” 

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “You dare---” 

“Step away from Harry Potter, Tom.” Dumbledore said louder, as Voldemort had been subtly shifting closer to his child as they spoke. 

“Leave now, Dumbledore,” Voldemort snapped. “And I won’t kill you. Leave now. I won’t ask again.” 

Dumbledore shook his head and raised his wand higher, the gleam of the Elder Wand reflected onto the floor, illuminating the broken glass that littered the ground. “I won’t let you kill the boy.” he said firmly. 

“So be it.” Voldemort snarled, having no intention of informing his enemy that the child in question would not be harmed. Would never be harmed if Voldemort had a say in it. (Which he did.). 

And thus the fight commenced. 

Voldemort fought harder than he ever had before. The threat of losing his baby was more than enough to encourage him. It was clear to Dumbledore that Voldemort would not stop until he was either dead, or away. 

The pair danced around the room, spells flying every which way, bouncing off of walls and being absorbed by their targets. Voldemort was slowly winning, his determination to have his family was boosting his magic and making him stronger. 

And that was when everything went wrong. 

In a mere instance, Voldemort felt---for the first time in nearly fifty years---pure terror. A killing curse that he had fired at Dumbledore had bounced off his shield and moved towards it’s new target. 

His son. 

“NOOO---” Voldemort let out a horrified cry as he reached for the baby, but it was too late. Just as the green light hit his son, a bright white light encompassed the room with a loud bang and everything disappeared. 

When the light faded, Voldemort was gone. 

* * *

**_-June 24 1995-  
Little Hangleton _ **

“Robe me.” 

The command was harsh and direct, and Voldemort sneered as the quivering idiot that had resurrected him, fumbled to clothe him. When Voldemort was suitably clothed, he turned to look at his son, still tied up against the grave. 

Voldemort felt a flash of wonder and affection at the child. Harry had grown to be a beautiful young man, and Voldemort had never been more proud to see what a fine young man his son had become. His affection, however, quickly melted to rage as he continued to look. 

His son was bound by the statue, and his beautiful emerald eyes did not contain the joy and curiosity that Voldemort had so dearly missed. Instead they were wide with terror and an age-old weariness that Voldemort had never wanted his little one to hold. 

He was skinny, very much so. Abnormally so. Voldemort narrowed his eyes as they traveled up and down the tiny frame of his child. He was not only very thin for his age, he was also incredibly small. As though he did not have the proper nourishment growing up. Voldemort’s eyes flared with rage at the thought, causing his child to flinch away from him. 

This only made him angrier. His child was flinching away from him! Him, who would never hurt him. Him, who would do whatever it took to protect his child from the dangers of the world. His child should _never_ be afraid of him. 

His eyes continued to appraise his bound son, only stopping once more at the sight of a gruesome cut on his forearm, still sluggishly bleeding. While Voldemort had been enraged at the sight of the bruises and scratches littering his precious’s body, he had conceded that they were from the tournament---a necessary evil in order for him to be resurrected and take back what was rightfully his. However this cut was not from the tournament. It was far too clean and deep. 

His son had been cut by a knife. 

“Wormtail!” Voldemort hissed, snapping his serpentine head back to look at the terrified idiot. 

“Y-Yes My Lord?” Wormtail sputtered out, still clutching his arm stump where his hand used to sit. Voldemort had intended to heal him after the ritual, but now, seeing the state of his child, he was less inclined to do so. 

“Did I not say _a tiny prick_?” he demanded. Wormtail’s rat-like face drew up in confusion. 

“Y-You did, My Lord.” he said, managing to respond through the pained sobs and whimpers that escaped his lips. 

“Then tell me why there is a _cut_ on my child’s arm!” Voldemort snarled. Wormtail whimpered at his master’s anger, and so too, did the teenager bound to the grave. Voldemort quickly looked back at his child to ensure that he was still alive and there, before he returned his gaze to his useless servant. 

“My… M-My Lord I… please… it..” Wormtail stuttered out, his attention increasingly waning as the pain of his severed hand became too much. 

Voldemort sneered. “ _Crucio_.” Voldemort felt a part of his rage dissipate at the agonized screams of his follower. When he finally lifted it, Wormtail twitched on the ground, small whimpers escaping his blood stained lips. 

With that dealt with, Voldemort finally turned to focus on his most precious. Voldemort delighted in the knowledge that finally, after all these years, he would have his son. Before, when he was nothing but a parasite on Quirrel’s head, he’d been unable to embrace his son without damaging his vessel. 

Now, however… 

“I can touch you now…” he whispered, drifting closer to his bound child, delicately trailing his fingers down the side of his face. 

His little one struggled against the binds, turning his face so that he might escape Voldemort’s touch. And Voldemort just couldn’t have that. 

“Calm yourself, my child,” he cooed in a soothing tone. “You’re safe now.” 

“Yeah right!” his son scoffed. It was the first time that Voldemort had heard his voice in almost three years, and it made him giddy. “You just… You just killed Cedric!” 

Voldemort frowned. “Cedric…?” 

His son’s emerald eyes widened in horrified disbelief. “Yeah! Cedric! Cedric Diggory! The teenager you just _murdered_!” 

“I did not kill him, little one,” Voldemort said, a frown growing on his face as he took in his child’s angry tone. “Wormtail did. And he has suffered. Was it not enough?” 

“He killed him under your orders!” he cried. “And… and… you…” 

Voldemort sighed, resigning himself to face his precious grievance against him. Hopefully this would not take long, as Voldemort was not sure how much time they had left. “I what, precious?” 

He could see the confusion working its way into his son’s eyes. That was good. Confusion was far more acceptable to fear, and horror. “You… You killed my mum and dad,” his son said. Voldemort felt a flash of jealous, and possessive rage wash through him as his son called another man his dad. “And… you’re trying to kill me…” his son continued. 

Voldemort forced himself to calm down, choosing instead to focus on the second part of his son’s response. “I would never try to kill you, little one.” he said with a shake of his head. “I will never hurt you.” 

“I… I don’t understand…” his precious one said, confusion fully taking over his expression, not a trace of fear to be seen. Good… 

“You are my son.” Voldemort said triumphantly. He expected relief to shine through his child’s _Avada_ eyes, but instead the confusion morphed back into horror. 

“W-What?!” his son cried out. Voldemort frowned in confusion. Why was he so upset? “What are you talking about?! I’m not… You’re not… You’re… This is crazy!” 

“Calm down, little one,” Voldemort soothed. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” And it was true, his son was bound to injure himself if he kept struggling against the rough stone. If anything, this command made him struggle harder. 

“Let me go! Let me go!” his son cried out, fighting hard against the restraint that held him in place. Voldemort winced as the back of his son’s head cracked against the stone grave. 

“That’s enough!” Voldemort hissed, and his son froze in place, his eyes wide with fear. “You will cease this at once.” 

It was silent for a moment, and Voldemort felt a small pang of regret course through him. He’d been doing---well, not _well_ persay, but his son hadn’t been afraid of him. Now, however, those green eyes that Voldemort had missed were once again filled with terror. 

“Look what you’ve gone and done,” Voldemort chastised gently. He reached his hand towards his son, ignoring the flinch his child gave at the approach, and gently felt the back of his head. A small trickle of blood matted his hair together from the injury he received via the stone grave. “You’ve gone and hurt yourself, dear one. That is not allowed.” 

Emerald eyes watched with shock as Voldemort whispered a healing incantation. All of the cuts, bruises and scratches healed, leaving his child perfectly healthy and in no pain. Voldemort smiled sweetly at the sight of his most precious. 

“There,” he said. “I’m going to release you now. Are you going to fight, or can I trust you, little one?” 

“I… I won’t fight…” his son said softly, his wide eyes never leaving Voldemort’s face. Voldemort smiled a little wider at that, and waved his hands. The statue moved away, dropping it’s hold on his child. 

Voldemort acted quickly, grabbing his son before he could fall to the ground. “There,” he said with a glimmer in his crimson eyes. “All better. Are you ready to come home, precious?” 

The emerald eyes widened in realization, and the pliant body that Voldemort had been cuddling without complaint, suddenly began to struggle. Voldemort mourned it’s loss, and tightened his grip on his son. 

“NO!” his child cried. “No! I’m not going anywhere with you! You’re crazy! You kill people! No! Let me go!” 

“Now, now, dear one,” Voldemort said firmly. “You need to calm down. You’re going to work yourself up. Please, let’s go home.” 

“I already have a home!” his son replied with a snap. “It’s not with you! You murdered my parents! Let me go!” 

Voldemort’s eyes flashed. “Those people were _not_ your parents!” he hissed. “ _I_ am your father. You are _my_ son.” 

“No I’m not!” his son cried vehemently, shaking his head. Voldemort sighed at his stubborn child. 

“Why are you fighting, Harry?” Voldemort asked. His son stopped at the use of his first name. “Is there really somewhere else you’d rather go? Do you truly have another family?” 

His son hesitated, his eyes flashing with that tell-tale sadness, and weariness that all abused children held. It made Voldemort enraged, but he controlled his emotions, not wanting to scare his son off when he was finally starting to get through to him. 

“Y-Yes.” his son said, his eyes darting away from Voldemort’s for a quick second, missing the flash of triumph in Voldemort’s eyes and the victorious smirk that rested on his face for a brief second. 

“Do you?” Voldemort pressed. “Tell me, little one, why are you so small? Did your so-called family feed you?” 

His precious’s eyes widened for a brief second in surprise before they hardened. “Yes.” he said. Voldemort grinned. His precious was not a good liar. 

“They did?” he asked. “And how do they feel about your magic? They’re proud aren’t they?” 

Voldemort felt sorrow work it’s way through his heart as he watched his son fold in on himself. It was obvious now that whoever had been watching his son, did not love him nor care for him. (Not like Voldemort would.) 

“Come dear one,” Voldemort said again. “Come home with me. You will be safe and happy and well-loved. Just as you should be.” 

His son eyed him wearily, and Voldemort wanted to growl in frustration. His child was so suspicious! Instead, Voldemort only looked at him with a warm, gentle expression. “Will I be allowed to leave?” his son asked softly. 

Victorious! Voldemort felt a happy grin work it’s way onto his face. “Of course, dearest,” he said. “You would need to be careful, though. I don’t want anything to harm you. You must ask for permission first, naturally, but I will not hold you prisoner.” 

“What… what happens if I disobey?” his son asked wearily. Voldemort grinned. 

“Then I’ll just have to punish you.” he said. Fear once again flashed in his son’s eyes, but Voldemort refused to let it stay there. He muttered a quick tickling jinx, and watched with glee as his son laughed loudly. 

Voldemort drank in the joyful sound greedily. That sound had been dearly missed. Finally, though, Voldemort cancelled the spell. His son panted, sucking in deep breaths as he looked at Voldemort in shock. 

Voldemort smiled. “I will never harm you, dear one. This I swear.” 

His son stared at him for another long moment, and the graveyard was silent, and Voldemort waited patiently. Finally those emerald eyes looked down at the ground. 

“If I want to…” he said softly. “If I want to leave… If I change my mind… Will you let me?” 

Voldemort felt his immense possessiveness wash over him at the thought of his son, his family, leaving him. It made rage curl up inside his gut and the desire to curse something became overwhelming. But Voldemort knew that he had won. 

“Of course, my child.” he said. “I promise, I will not hold you prisoner.” 

And he wouldn’t. But he also wouldn’t let him leave. Voldemort would just have to make his son trust him. Voldemort would work to make his son love him and never want to leave him. After all, that’s what family did, right? 

His son nodded once, very curtly. Voldemort grinned triumphantly and pulled his son in for a tight embrace. Finally, after all these years, his son would be coming home! Voldemort nuzzled his son’s hair and breathed in his child’s scent. Voldemort felt his joy triple when hesitant arms wrapped around his waist and his son hugged him back. 

“Let’s go home, dear one.” he said softly, sending one final glance at the graveyard. Later, after his son was settled into Riddle Manor, after he’d been introduced to Nagini, Voldemort would return here to erase any evidence that he’d ever been there in the first place. He would kill Wormtail to tie up loose ends. Then he would return home where a family waited for him. But he would do all that later. For now, he just held his son tight and reveled in the feeling of wholeness he had never known.

“Let’s go home.”


	2. Meeting New Friends

**_-June 25 1995-  
Riddle Manor_ **

Harry wakes up and panics for a solid minute before the memories of yesterday hit him. “What the actual fuck happened yesterday…?” Harry mumbles to himself as he looks around the room he finds himself in. It’s fairly modest, but still ten times more luxurious than anything the Dursley’s may have owned. Harry lays in a queen sized bed, his bare feet brushing against the satin sheets gently, and his glasses rest on an otherwise empty bedside table. The room is large, and to the right of him, pressed against the emerald painted walls, sits a giant dresser. A Hogwarts banner hangs from the wall above the bed, and a broom rests against the wall in the corner. Harry leans back to take it all in and jumps when his hands brush something soft. He turns around to see a plush teddy bear sitting next to his pillow. 

A knock startles him out of his shock. Harry turns his head just in time to see _Lord-fucking-Voldemort_ peek his head in. His eyebrows draw up in surprise and a fond expression flits across his face. “Good morning, precious! I was just coming to wake you up!” Lord-fucking-Voldemort says pleasantly. “Breakfast is ready. Or, rather, brunch, I suppose.” 

“Er…” Harry says, because honestly, he has _no_ idea how he’s supposed to respond to the situation he’s found himself in. What does one say when their parent’s murderer offers you breakfast? “Thank… you?” 

That seems to be the correct answer, because Lord-fucking-Voldemort honest-to-God _beams_ at him, and Harry is at a loss. Sure, what happened yesterday would possibly explain the strange behavior, but Harry was still half convinced he dreamed the whole thing up, and any second now he was going to wake up to Ron’s insistent shaking and demands to hurry up so he can eat. 

“Hurry up and get dressed, I want you to meet someone!” Lord-fucking-Voldemort says. (Harry should probably stop calling him ‘Lord-Fucking-Voldemort’, because Harry’s pretty sure said megalomaniac knows how to read minds) 

“Um, I don’t have any… clothes?” Harry says awkwardly, his hand coming up to fiddle with his hair nervously. Lord-fucking-Vol--- _Voldemort_ eyes hims curiously, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asks, opening the door further to enter. Harry’s eyes widen even more at the sight of the most infamous Dark Wizard in all of Britain history walks into the room wearing a pink, frilly apron. He walks over to the dresser and opens the doors to display a full wardrobe. “All of your clothes are in here.” 

“Those are mine?” Harry asks, his mouth dropping in shock. 

Voldemort’s face crinkles with fondness as he walks closer to ruffle Harry’s hair. (Harry is relieved to see Voldemort didn’t comment on his slight flinch.) “Of course they are,” Voldemort says. “I bought them for you. For your homecoming.” 

And just like that, the easy atmosphere disappears. Ice floods his veins as Harry freezes. Homecoming…? Does that mean… does that mean Voldemort had planned this? To take Harry? To claim him as a… a what? An heir? A son? Harry was so confused and incredibly wary. He had no idea what this wizard wanted from him, but he knew he needed to tread carefully. Voldemort had no problem murdering his parents and hundreds of other people. Unless Harry wanted the same fate, he needed to be very cautious. 

“Thank you…” Harry mumbled softly, unsure of how exactly he should proceed. He looked up and managed to see a slight frown on Voldemort’s face as he looked at him. Harry tensed, afraid he’d done something wrong. 

“Precious? What’s wrong?” Voldemort asked, looking him over with concern. “Are you alright? Does your head hurt? You did hit it pretty hard yesterday…” 

“Yes,” Harry said before he shook his head when Voldemort’s eyes widened considerably. “I mean no! I mean… I’m just… confused.” 

Voldemort slumped with noticeable relief. “Oh, I see,” he said. “What are you confused about? Tell me, I can help.” 

“Why… why are you being so nice?” Harry asked, almost instantly regretting the question, however, when Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. “I mean! Everyone says that you’re really dangerous and that you want to kill me! I’m just really confused and trying to understand…” 

“I thought we went over this yesterday, little one,” Voldemort said, a forced grin on his face. Harry winced when the arm wrapped around his shoulders tightened slightly. “I am your father, you are my son. I am merely doing what any good father would do. Nothing more to it.” 

Harry wanted to press more, but one look at the tense figure of Voldemort convinced Harry not to. Instead he nodded and forced himself to relax. “Oh… thank you, then.” Harry said, hoping to calm the homicidal Dark Lord before he took his anger out on him. 

It seemed to work. 

Voldemort loosened his rigid form and a genuine smile flashed across his face as he bent down to press a kiss to Harry’s temple. Harry stifled a gasp at the tender gesture. Harry had seen Aunt Petunia give Dudley forehead kisses all the time, but he had never had one. Not once in his life. Not even Molly gave him forehead kisses. Harry felt overwhelmed by the sudden influx of emotions rising in his chest. 

Voldemort’s previously relaxed figure tensed once again when he caught sight of the tears pooling in Harry’s eyes. “Harry? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” 

“N-No! No, it’s just… I’ve never… no one’s ever…” Harry stuttered, unsure of how to say, ‘no one’s ever cared about me enough to give me forehead kisses before’ without sounding like a sad, abused orphan. 

Voldemort’s eyes softened, and understanding flashed in his crimson gaze. “Don’t worry, dear one,” Voldemort said, ruffling Harry’s inky black hair once again. “I will shower you with all the affection you deserve.” 

Harry had no idea how he was supposed to respond to that, so he just nodded silently. Voldemort seemed to take pity of Harry’s shell-shocked state, as he gave Harry’s shoulder a brief squeeze before he stood up and brushed the invisible dirt off his frilly apron. 

“Get dressed, little one,” Voldemort said. “Then come downstairs for brunch. I made waffles.” 

And with that, Voldemort---known murderer, sociopath and megalomaniac---walked out of the (Harry’s?) bedroom, his apron billowing as he walked. Harry was still staring at the door when he realized that minutes had passed since Voldemort left. 

Harry quickly jumped up out of the ridiculously comfortable bed and walked over to the dresser. Harry’s mouth dropped at the sight of the dresser full of fully tailored robes. Harry’s hand trembled as it reached out to touch one of the robes. The material was soft and comfortable, and clearly more expensive than anything Harry had ever owned. Swallowing dryly, Harry slowly put the robes on. 

They were a perfect fit. 

(Harry tried his best not to be creeped out, but he was having trouble with it.)

After Harry was fully dressed, he opened the door to walk out of his room. His door opened to reveal a hallway that ended on his right and opened out to a grand staircase on his left. Harry walked towards the staircase and felt his body freeze in shock as he took in the house. 

It was _huge_! The staircase was split down the middle and it curled around an archway to connect on the ground. A magnificent chandelier hung from the ceiling directly over the bottom half of the staircase. Harry forcibly reminded himself to close his mouth as he walked down the stairs, his hands trailing the railing as he walked. 

Harry followed the sound of voices down the right hall to see the kitchen. He stopped at the threshold to take in the surprising view before him. Standing by the open window was a man Harry had never seen before, a large muggle pipe resting between his fingers as he stared at it in confusion. Voldemort leaned against the marble countertop having a conversation with a snake the size of a large dog. 

“ _Hatchling isss finally here_?” the snake hissed, the feeling of excitement bleeding into it’s tone. 

“ _Yesss_ ,” Voldemort hissed, a triumphant grin spreading across his face. “ _He can ssspeak to you, asss well my pet_.” 

“ _Hatchling ssspeaksss?_ ” the snake asked, mystified. 

“ _Who isss the hatchling?_ ” Harry asked, tilting his head in confusion. “ _Did your sssnake have babiesss?_ ” 

Voldemort looked up in shock at Harry’s voice before he let out a sharp chuckle at his question. “Hello little one,” he said with a smile. “And no, Nagini did not have babies. The hatchling in question is you.” 

“Me?” Harry asked in shock. “But I’m not a snake.” 

“No, you’re not,” Voldemort said with an amused shake of his head. “But that is the easiest way to explain to Nagini who you are to me.” 

“ _Masster’sss hatchling hasss come home!_ ” the snake, Nagini, hissed, rearing her large head up with joy. “ _Come hatchling! Ssspeak to Nagini!_ ” 

Harry looked at Voldemort for help, but the wizard merely chuckled and gestured towards his snake. “Um… okay…” Harry said softly. “ _Hello Nagini._ ” 

“ _Massster’sss hatchling isss preciousss!_ ” 

Harry felt his face flush red at the strange compliment as Voldemort let out another amused chuckle. “Come now, Harry, I have someone else I want you to meet,” Voldemort said, reaching out to grab Harry’s wrist and tug him forward. Voldemort gestured towards the other man that was currently holding the muggle pipe. “Harry, this is Barty Crouch Jr. He is a close follower of mine.” 

Barty smiled at him, and Harry shivered at the mildly crazed look in his eyes. “Hiya Harry, pleasure to meet ya!” 

“Um, hello.” Harry said, giving a short wave. Barty smiled wider. 

“Now that you’ve met Barty, it’s time for breakfast!” Voldemort said, not giving Harry a chance to argue. 

Harry stumbled as he was dragged through the kitchen to the room connected to it. When he was pulled into the dining room, Harry was assaulted by the fantastic smells of breakfast. Chocolate pancakes and belgian waffles stacked on plates rested in the center of the table. Circling the two plates sat a bowl of scrambled eggs, a bowl of assorted fruits, a plate of bacon and a plate of sausage links. A pitcher of milk rested on the left side of the table, and a pitcher of orange juice sat on the right. 

There were three plates sat on the right half of the table. The plates were placed at the head, the right and left side of the table respectively. Behind the head of the table, a giant, full length window proudly displayed the gardens out back. 

“Come, sit.” Voldemort said, ushering Harry into the chair on the right. Voldemort sat down at the head of the table, and to his left sat Barty. “Please, dig in. You must be hungry. Why, I don’t think you had dinner yesterday, and it’s nearly noon!” 

Now that he thought about it, Harry really was hungry. And the smells of breakfast only fuelled his hunger. Harry served himself a plate of pancakes, waffles, eggs and bacon. He happily began to eat, stopping only to watch as Voldemort placed a spoonful of fruit onto his plate and handed him a glass of orange juice. 

The meal was surprisingly silent, save for the sounds of eating coming from the trio. When Harry had finally cleared his plate, his stomach almost uncomfortably full, Voldemort cleared the dishes and food away with a wandless wave of his hand. 

“Now,” Voldemort said, looking at Harry with a fond---almost possessive---smile. “As much as I’d love to spend the day with you dear heart, I’m afraid I have some… loose ends I need to tie up. Barty here will keep an eye on you while I’m away.” 

“Wait what? You’re leaving?” Harry asked in shock. 

Voldemort’s gaze softened at the mildly panicked look on Harry’s face. “It will only be for a few hours, precious,” Voldemort said softly, leaning forward to squeeze Harry’s hand. “Don’t worry. Barty will keep you safe. Isn’t that right, Barty?” 

“Of course My Lord,” Barty said, his expression serious. “I would never let any harm befall the Little Lord.” 

“Little… Lord?” 

“See? There.” Voldemort said smugly. “You’ll be perfectly safe. Why don’t you explore the manor while I’m gone? When I get back, we can do something together, I promise.” 

“Um… okay.” Harry said, his head spinning from everything that had transpired in the last few hours. 

Voldemort smiled at him brightly. “Perfect! Then I will take my leave. The sooner I get started, the sooner I can come home. Right, precious?” Voldemort asked. Harry just nodded silently. Voldemort beamed at him and pressed another gentle kiss to his temple---and what was with all these weird feelings? Did forehead kisses always make people feel this way?!---before he stood and walked out of the dining room. 

Harry sat in awkward silence, his eyes darting around the room, suddenly unsure of where he should be looking. When Harry realized what he was doing, he cursed himself. Was he a Gryffindor or not? Suitably encouraged, Harry looked at Barty. 

“So… where are we, exactly?” Harry asked, finally asking the question that had been bothering him since he woke up this morning. 

“Little Hangleton.” Barty answered. “My Lord owns a manor here. Right in the center of a muggle town, perfect for laying low.” 

“We’re near muggles?” Harry cried in shock. 

Barty chuckled. “Yes, we are,” he said. “But don’t worry, Little Lord. I’ll protect you from the filthy animals.” 

Harry paused, his eyebrow raising. “What do you mean?” 

“Don’t you know? Muggles are barbaric. Hardly even evolved.” Barty said confidently. 

“Where did you get this information from?” Harry asked suspiciously. 

“Bellatrix Black.” Barty said plainly. Harry’s mind flashed back to the horror stories Sirius had told him of his cousin and suddenly everything made sense. 

“Barty have you ever even met a muggle?” Harry asked. 

“Well… no. But! I wouldn’t want to meet one ever! I hear they don’t even wear clothes!” Barty whispered scandalously. 

Harry just scoffed. “That’s not even remotely true.” 

“What do you mean?” Barty asked. 

“Let’s go into town,” Harry suggested. “You said we’re near muggles, right? That means they have a town nearby. Let’s go. I can show you what muggles are really like.” 

“Absolutely not!” Barty cried. “My Lord tasked me with keeping you safe! There’s no way I’d expose you to muggles!” 

“They’re not dangerous!” 

“My answer is no. No way.” Barty said firmly. “Why don;t you explore the manor, like My Lord said? The gardens are rather lovely.” 

“If you don’t take me to see the muggles I’ll… I’ll… I’ll tell Voldemort you startled me and I hit my head.” Harry said, struggling to come up with a good threat. 

That one seemed to work just fine, though, as Barty’s eyes widened considerably and genuine fear flashed through them for a second before it was gone, covered by a blank mask. Harry was anxiously as Barty stared at him for a long time before the blank mask cracked and a smirk bled onto his face. 

Oh shit. 

“You’re quite manipulative,” Barty drawled. “And I thought My Lord adopted some Gryffindor idiot. I think I’m going to like you. Come on Little Lord! Let’s go into the muggle’s town!” 

Suddenly, Harry had an ominous feeling this wasn’t going to end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading!!! I hope you enjoyed this chapter!!!! :)))
> 
> \-----------  
> Harry: I think I just made a mistake  
> Also Harry: But I don't really care


	3. Bartimous Crouch Jr. and the muggle experience

_**-June 25, 1995-  
Riddle Manor** _

Voldemort, although he had to, was reluctant to leave his son. Voldemort knew that he needed to tie up loose ends, knew that he needed to kill Pettigrew before he could go to the Aurors like the spineless fool he was. He knew that he needed to make it look like Harry was killed in that graveyard so that the Order would not assemble and come after him so quickly. Voldemort knew that there was no proof of his resurrection, but that wouldn’t stop Dumbledore from coming to that conclusion. 

He knew it was only a matter of time before the Aurors tracked the portkey to that graveyard, so he needed to act quickly. With luck, it would take the Aurors another week to trace the portkey---giving Voldemort enough time to get rid of any evidence of his presence there, as well as set up a Fidelius around Riddle Manor so that Dumbledore couldn't lead the Aurors to his son’s new home. 

Yes, he needed to leave, there was no doubt about it. Yet… Seeing his son’s panicked face when he said he was leaving only made Voldemort more reluctant. Putting on a brave face, Voldemort said his goodbyes to his dear child (Yes! Voldemort finally had his son back home with _him_ where he _belonged_. _Forever_.) and quickly apparated to the graveyard where he’d rescued his son the night prior. 

The giant cauldron where he’d emerged still sat, meters away from his father’s grave. He vanished the cauldron with a wave of his hand and began the painstaking process of stripping his magical signature from the area. Doing so required him to draw his magic out and tether to the magical signature in the area and _yank_ it back into his body. It was difficult and used up quite a bit of his strength. When he’d finally ensured the area was free of his signature, he apparated away and followed the tether of the Dark Mark to where Pettigrew was hiding. 

The rat was hiding in an abandoned shed a few miles away. He was still whimpering with pain as he held his stub of an arm. When Voldemort appeared, the rat let out a soft cry and held up his sluggishly bleeding arm towards him. “Oh, Master!” he cried. “Oh, Master, please… please…” 

Voldemort felt disgust rise up inside him at the sight of the sniveling coward. “Hush, now,” he cooed, bending down to hold the stub. “I will make it better.” 

“Oh thank you! Thank you, Master, thank you!” Wormtail sobbed. 

Voldemort sneered at him and the shed flashed bright green as the curse ripped out of his wand. Voldemort let the body hit the floor with a satisfying _thud_ , and Voldemort wiped his hand against his robes. With a final glance around the small room, Voldemort apparated home, excited to return to his son. 

When he entered the manor, his good mood vanished instantly. 

He couldn’t feel his son’s magical presence anywhere. 

Voldemort couldn’t describe the panic he felt even if he was offered a billion galleons. The sheer, overwhelming feeling of the world ending. The crushing feeling of _wrongness_ that rose up in his chest and choked him. It was _wrong_. So wrong. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_. 

His son was supposed to be here! ( _ ~~Never let him leave.~~_ ) Voldemort would tear whoever stole his son away limb from limb! ( _ ~~A pile of heads a pile of arms a pile of legs a pile of bodies---~~_ ) Voldemort needed his precious child like he needed to breathe, he could not go back to that empty house with no sunshine and no air. 

How had he become so dependent on his child when he’d had him for such a short time? Voldemort couldn’t imagine a life without his son. Not anymore. Harry made things better; that’s what he _always_ did. 

Now that Voldemort had his son, he was never letting him leave his grasp. ( _ ~~NeVeR lEt HiM lEaVe~~_ )

And now his son wasn’t here. 

His magic ripped through the manor, leaving nothing but rubble in its place. The beautiful furniture and elegant decor were burned to ash and it took all of his self-control to keep the manor standing. 

He would need a home to come back to once he had his son back. A place that he could keep his son protected, somewhere that was sturdy and ~~he could build a magical prison that would keep his son safe and _never able to leave because his son wasn’t allowed to leave him ever_~~ safe for his son to grow up in. 

But first, he needed to find his son. 

And bring him home. 

( ~~Where he could never ever leave~~ )

* * *

“Little Lord… I changed my mind… your father would eviscerate me if the muggles hurt you… we should just return to the manor.” Barty whispered, flinching when a muggle woman passed him on the sidewalk. His eyes were wide as he stared at her, and Harry suppressed a sigh when the lady began walking faster, glancing at Barty with subtle suspicion. 

“Honestly, Barty,” Harry rolled his eyes. “They’re not going to attack you.”

“How would you know?!” Barty demanded, pointing a finger at a random passerby who scoffed at the pair. “They’re animals! They’re mentally impaired, you know, can barely tell left from right.”

“First of all, you really shouldn’t listen to Bellatrix because she seems to lie as if her life depended on it,” Harry said, with a scowl. “And second of all, I know because I was raised with muggles.” 

It took Harry a few seconds to realize that Barty had stopped, no longer walking side by side with him. He turned to see Barty standing frozen a few paces behind him, eyes wide with horror. Harry raised an eyebrow at the man’s rigid form before Barty sputtered. 

“ _You_? You were raised with _muggles_?!” Barty cried, his hands coming up to wave above his head with agitation. “You, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, precious golden boy of Wizarding Britain, was raised with _muggles_!?” 

“Yes,” Harry said, crossing his arms defensively. “Why? Everyone has that reaction when I tell them, why is that so surprising?” 

“Because you’re the golden boy!” Barty says. “People were filing for custody of you the minute people heard what happened. How you ended up with _muggles_ of all people is insane.” 

Harry stopped, his eyes widening slightly as he processed what Barty said. “I… I could’ve been raised by wizards?” The very thought filled Harry with such bittersweet emotions. The thought of growing up with a loving family, three meals a day---it boggled his mind. 

“Did you like living with vermin, Little Lord?” 

Harry snapped out of his silence at Barty’s words, and Harry looked at the Death Eater to see the man eyeing him curiously. Harry stiffened and fought back the instinctive reaction of snapping at him, choosing instead to shrug casually and continue walking. Barty picked up on the obvious dismissal and quickly caught up to Harry’s strides. 

Their walk was silent for the most part, only really being interrupted by Harry scolding Barty about looking so horrified at everything the muggles did. At this point, it was a miracle the police hadn’t been called yet. Barty truly had no idea that he was attracting so much attention, but Harry was seconds away from pulling his hair out. 

“Okay, Barty?” Harry said finally, forcing the man to stop and look at him, dragging him into a nearby alleyway to avoid the not-so-subtle stares. 

“Little Lord?”

“You’re too conspicuous.” Harry said firmly. “You’re sticking out like a sore thumb, and if you don’t stop it, we’re going to get caught.” 

“What will they do if they catch us?” Barty asked, his eyes wide. “Burn us at the stake? I will protect you Little Lord, don’t worry. I know several cooling charms, and I can apparate us as well---I won’t splinch you, I promise.” 

“You, what? Wait, what’s splinching? Actually, nevermind, I don’t want to know,” Harry said before breathing in deeply and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t want… Voldemort to know that I was in the muggle world, do you? If we get caught, he’ll find out.” 

Barty was silent for a moment as he considered this before letting out another one of his creepy grins. “You are so clever, Little Lord,” Barty said with a scary glint in his eyes. “I love it when you get all manipulative! You’re a real Slytherin, you know that? You’ll be a fantastic Dark lord someday.” 

Harry froze. “What?” 

“I imagine you’ll take over once your dad retires,” Barty continued, oblivious to the panic that Harry felt. “Wow, how strange. I never thought the Dark Lord would retire yet…” 

“He’s not retiring! I’m not taking over! I’m not a Dark Lord!” Harry cried, frantically shaking his head. “I think you’re misunderstanding what’s happening here! I was kidnapped! I’m not actually his son!”

“Aren’t you, though?” Barty asked, raising an eyebrow. “I mean, you willingly went with the Dark Lord from the graveyard, didn’t you?”

“Well… yes, but---”

“And you willingly agreed to stay here, didn’t you?” 

“I guess, but you’ve got it all wrong---”

“And the Dark Lord isn’t holding you prisoner here, is he?” 

“Er, no, I guess not. But I---”

“Then, as far as I’m concerned, you’re the Dark Lord’s son.” Barty said. Harry stared at him for a long time, his mind frantically going over the details. The Dark Lord claimed to be Harry’s father (Harry wasn’t sure if he meant biologically or spiritually, and frankly, Harry didn’t want to know) and Harry did go with the Dark Lord willingly. Voldemort had even stated clearly that Harry wasn’t a prisoner. He could leave anytime he wanted. 

So why didn’t he?

(Because Harry wanted a family. Harry didn’t want to be _freakboy_ anymore.) 

“Congratulations it’s a boy.” Harry deadpanned. 

“What?” Barty asked, looking at Harry like he was crazy. Harry just sighed and pulled Barty out of the alleyway and back into the street. 

“I want to make lunch.” Harry said, mostly to himself, but Barty decided to comment on his words anyway. 

“You can’t!” he cried, aghast. “That’s servant’s work!”

“Barty. I’m making lunch because I have nothing better to do.” Harry growled. “So shut up, and come to the supermarket with me. Got it?”

Barty pursed his lips but nodded regardless. Harry took the win and began walking in the direction of the square. It was a small town---village, more accurately---and Harry had no trouble navigating the area, despite never having been here before. The only downside was that it was a small town, and that meant everyone knew everyone. 

And no one knew them. 

“Excuse me, sir,” a snobby voice called out from behind him. Barty visibly stiffened at the interruption and Harry turned around to greet the woman who had called him while Barty tightened his grip on Harry’s wrist. “Are you new here?” 

“Yes!” Harry said, a polite smile resting on his face. “My older brother and I are visiting my father for a few months.” 

The woman who had been eyeing them suspiciously moments earlier grinned at them. “Oh! You’re brothers? How sweet! You know, I see the resemblance.” 

“Thank you, we get that a lot.” Harry said with a tight smile. The grip Barty had on his wrist was starting to hurt, and Harry knew that if he didn’t get rid of this woman soon, Barty was either going to break his arm or curse her into oblivion. “We were just on our way to the supermarket to get things for lunch. Our father is ill, you see, so we really must be on our way.” 

“Oh you poor dears,” the woman cooed. “Would you like me to show you how to get there? It’s really no problem!”

Harry fought back a wince when Barty’s death-like-grip got even _tighter_. Harry could’ve sworn he heard his bones creak in response to Barty’s fear. “We’ll be alright. Thank you though, we really appreciate it!”

The woman smiled. “No problem, dear!” she said. “Oh! Who is your father? Do I know him?”

Shit. Harry’s smile tightened. “I don’t think so! He hasn’t lived here in a while. Tom Riddle Jr. is his name.” Harry said, watching with dread as the woman’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“Does he live in Riddle Manor?” she asked. 

“That’s the one! He’s a bit of a recluse, though, so I doubt you’ve met him.” Harry said, praying to any God or entity out there that this lady would hurry up and go away before Barty decided she was too much of a threat and kills her in broad daylight. 

“I see… well, it was nice meeting you boys,” the lady seemed hesitant as she waved goodbye. Harry waited until she was out of view before letting out a sigh of relief. 

“Holy shit… that was intense!” Harry said, blowing out a harsh breath of air. Harry took the opportunity to rip his wrist out of Barty’s grip, wincing at the feeling of blood rushing back into his hand. “Damn Barty, are you trying to break my wrist?” 

Barty’s eyes widened as he was shocked out of his stupor. “Did I hurt you, Little Lord?” he asked, gently taking Harry’s wrist in his grip and holding it up to his eyes to examine it. “I sincerely apologize. I was so concerned. That barbarian could’ve attacked you!”

Harry rolled his eyes and took his arm back once again. “Honestly, Barty, muggles don’t just attack people randomly!” he said, shaking his head. “They have their own lives and are content to go about it. There is a small percentage of muggles that actually go out of their way to attack random strangers.” 

“Regardless, I will do better to protect you next time, I swear.” Barty vowed. 

“Let’s just… get to the supermarket already.” Harry said with a sigh. 

Thankfully, there were no other incidents on the way to the supermarket. Harry spent the rest of the walk there gently rubbing his wrist where an ugly purple bruise was beginning to form. (Harry cringed at the thought of Voldemort finding out about it.) When they finally arrived, the place was crawling with muggles going about their shopping. Harry frowned at the sight, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Barty subtly reach for his wand. 

Harry raced to grab Barty’s arm, slipping his hand into the curse-happy Death Eater’s. Barty looked at their conjoined hands incredulously before he began to pull away. Harry tightened his grip and raised his eyebrow at the man. 

“If you can’t act like an adult, then you don’t get to be treated like one,” Harry said firmly. “I’m holding your hand while we go in to make sure you don’t start firing off curses at the first person who talks to you.” 

“I am thirty-three years old! I don’t need a bloody nanny!” Barty cried. 

“Don’t you?” Harry asked, parroting his words from earlier. Barty looked miffed but didn’t say anything after that. Harry took the win and began walking towards the entrance. “Can I trust you to grab the cart for me, or do I need to do it?” 

“The… cart…?” 

“Yes. The cart.” Harry pointed to the line of carts sitting by the entrance. Barty stared at it before he turned to look at Harry. “What’s that look for?”

“What in Merlin’s name do we need that contraption for?” Barty exclaimed, causing several heads to turn in their direction. 

“Oh, for the love of---fine! I’ll get it!” Harry cried. “Honestly, Barty, for someone who claims to be thirty-three, you sure do act like a toddler.” 

“You’re mean.” Barty pouted. Harry just huffed out a laugh and grabbed the cart. It took some maneuvering, but Harry was able to find a way to both hold Barty’s hand and steer the cart with both hands. Plus, Barty’s face when he realized he was touching the muggle cart was priceless. 

“Now then, what should I make for lunch?” Harry asked, content to just browse through the aisles. 

“Little Lord, really, you shouldn’t be cooking. It’s not proper for someone of your station---” 

“I’m not a bloody prince,” Harry muttered. “What about chicken and mashed potatoes? We can have green beans and cranberry sauce as well!” 

“Little Lord…” Barty whined, but Harry refused to look at him. 

Harry dragged Barty through the aisles, placing things in the cart whenever he found something he liked or wanted. Every time he laced something in the cart, Barty would look at it like it personally offended him before he huffed. Then, after a few minutes of being properly indifferent, Barty would cave and ask what the item was. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s canned cranberry sauce. I prefer it when it’s cuttable rather than when it’s mashed berries.” 

Or, sometimes it was more like, “What in Merlin’s name is that thing?! It looks like something you’d find in Bellatrix’s room!”

To which Harry would respond with, “It’s a chicken Barty. Surely you’ve seen a chicken before.” 

No matter how Barty asked the question, Barty seemed to be genuinely interested in the muggles. Harry could see that everything he’d shown him had completely disrupted everything Barty believed about muggles. 

Not to mention, the way Barty had jumped and let out a hoarse yelp when the manager came on over the intercom to announce the sales they were having made Harry laugh so hard that tears came out of his eyes. 

It wasn’t until Harry was getting ready to check out that he realized he was missing one key ingredient. 

“Oh, bloody hell!” Harry cursed, ignoring Barty’s amused snort from behind him. 

“Does your father know you curse so much?” Barty asked with a grin. 

“Barty how are we going to pay for all this?” Harry cried, his eyes wide. “We don’t have any money!”

“Sure we do! Your father is the Dark Lord, and you live in a manor. You have money, kid.” Barty said with a roll of his eyes. 

“Yeah, _wizarding_ money!” Harry snapped. “I didn’t bring any _muggle_ money with me!” 

“Oh, is that all?” Barty asked. “Honestly, Harry! You’re a wizard! Just _confound_ them or something.” 

“Wait you mean… you mean, like, _steal_?” Harry asked, his eyes wide. 

Barty let out an amused chuckle. “Harry, your father is a Dark Lord, who cares if you steal some food from muggles. Bet they won’t even notice! They’re stupid little things.” 

“I can’t just steal---”

“Sure you can! It’s really easy!” 

“What? Wait, Barty no---”

Harry watched with horror as Barty pushed their cart up into check out and pointed his wand at the cashier and _confounded_ her. Harry looked around frantically to see if anyone saw that, but by the grace of pure luck, it seemed that no one was around to see it. 

Harry waited until they were out of the supermarket before he turned around and glared at Barty. “I can’t believe you! That was so irresponsible! What if someone saw you? What were you thinking?!”

“I want lunch and this is the stuff you wanted?” Barty said, looking at Harry in confusion. “You said you didn’t have the money. I don’t see what’s wrong.”

Harry sucked in a deep breath before letting out a weary sigh. “Just… Let’s just get back to the manor.” 

The walk back to Riddle Manor was silent, and Harry prayed that everything would go back to normal once he returned. He would spend the next hour and a half making lunch, and doing what he usually did whenever he was uncomfortable with his situation---cook. 

All of those plans were dashed, however, when they returned to see a destroyed manor. Standing in the wreckage of what used to be the beautiful entryway was a furious Voldemort. They froze when Voldemort whipped his head around to see the pair standing there, and Harry took an instinctive step back at the crazed, manic look in those crimson eyes. 

“Um… hey…?” Harry said slowly looking at him with wide eyes. 

One second Harry was standing in the destroyed entrance next to Barty, and the next he was locked in an impossibly tight grip, crushed against the murderous Dark Lord’s chest. 

Oh crap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voldemort has some issues and he should really see a therapist. (In case you didn't already know before)  
> Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a kudos and a review because they make my day! :))))  
> \-------------------  
> Harry: I am afraid  
> Harry: I fear for my life


	4. The Danger of angering a Dark Lord

_**-June 25, 1995-  
Riddle Manor** _

Harry couldn’t breathe, as his face was crushed into the chest of the Dark Lord. It had happened in the blink of an eye; one second he was standing in front of Voldemort’s enraged face and the next the Dark Lord had lunged forward and tugged Harry with an impossibly strong grip and wrapped his arms possessively around his shoulders. 

“WHERE DID YOU GO?!” he snarled, his hands digging into Harry’s shoulder painfully. “YOU LEFT!” 

“I… W-We just left to get groceries…” Harry stuttered, his words coming out muffled against Voldemort’s robes. “We weren’t gone f-for very long!”

“Barty!” Voldemort hissed, either ignoring Harry’s words or not hearing them. His tone was murderous, and Harry trembled against Voldemort’s hold. “Explain. Now.” 

“Little Lord wished to cook, My Lord,” Barty said, and Harry was amazed at his steady tone. Wasn’t he afraid? Harry was terrified! “I took him into town to get the necessary ingredients.” 

“How _dare_ you take my son without my permission!” Voldemort seethed. “ _Crucio_!” 

Harry let out a startled gasp when Barty’s agonized screams filled the remains of the entryway. Harry began to struggle, pushing against the constricting arms in an attempt to get to Barty. Even though he was a death eater, Barty didn’t deserve to be punished this way. Voldemort’s grip on him tightened impossibly, and Harry felt the breath leave his lungs at the tightness. 

“P-Please---” Harry gasped, and Voldemort finally lifted the curse, pulling back so that he could look at Harry. 

“You are my son,” Voldemort cried, his red eyes manic. Harry shivered, uncomfortable with the possessive attention. “You can’t leave me! You’re my family! I won’t be alone!” 

“Y-You said I could leave,” Harry argued, internally saddened by the Dark Lord’s words. Harry could relate to the Dark Lord, Harry knew the biting sting of loneliness all too well. The knowledge that the dangerous Dark Lord Voldemort simply wanted a family made Harry’s chest clench with sympathy. Even still, Harry had a strong sense of self-preservation, and Harry wasn’t sure if staying here was the best idea. If he did _that_ to his loyal followers when they upset him, what would he do to Harry? “You said I wouldn’t be a prisoner!” 

Awareness crept into Voldemort’s eyes then, and Harry watched as realization shot across his face before it was replaced with careful affection. “Of course, precious,” Voldemort said softly. “You are not a prisoner here. This is your home.” 

Harry decided that telling his unstable captor that this place was _not_ his home was a bad idea, so he just nodded silently. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, hoping that by submitting to the dangerous man, Barty would be spared further punishment. “I should have asked about the rules before you left. It was my fault.” 

That seemed to be the correct thing to say because Voldemort’s gaze softened further. “Oh dear, no, this wasn’t your fault,” he said, finally releasing his death-like grip on Harry’s shoulder in favor of running his hand through Harry’s inky black hair. “Barty should have known better than to let you leave without telling me.” 

“I apologize, My Lord,” Barty chimed in, having managed to stand up again, albeit shakily. “It will not happen again.” 

“Indeed it will not.” Voldemort agreed, his eyes cold and dangerous again. “I am very displeased with you, Barty.” 

“I made him do it!” Harry cut in, drawing the attention back to himself. “I… I tricked him! So it really wasn’t his fault!” 

“You tricked him?” Voldemort asked, raising an eyebrow as an amused grin stretched across his lips. “However so?” 

“Um… I just… I told him he had to,” Harry said, fumbling for a response. He didn’t want to tell the Dark Lord that he threatened to frame Barty for injury, as the Dark Lord was already angry enough. “Because I… I’m your… your son?” 

Any sign of Voldemort’s previous anger was completely wiped away with Harry’s answer. A bright, blinding smile rested on Voldemort’s face as Harry was once again pulled forward into a tight hug. “Yes, you are, dear,” Voldemort agreed. “My son. _Mine_.” 

Harry hesitantly brought his hands up to wrap around the Dark Lord, and Voldemort’s grip on him tightened in response. After a long moment, Voldemort pulled away and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. Harry flushed at the unexpected affection and shifted slightly. 

“Now then,” Voldemort said, wrapping one arm around Harry’s shoulder, keeping him close. “You wanted to cook?” 

“Oh! Yeah, I, um, I like cooking,” Harry said, his eyes darting towards the forgotten bags of groceries on the floor. “So I wanted to get some stuff. You know, to make lunch.” 

“You don’t have to do that, precious,” Voldemort said softly. “We have House Elves for that.” 

“I know! I like doing it!” Harry exclaimed. Did all wizards rely on their House elves? What would happen if their House Elves left? Harry grinned at the thought of Draco Malfoy trying to cook his own meal. 

“Very well,” Voldemort conceded. “I would love to have a home-cooked meal made by my son.” 

“Great! I’ll just get started then!” Harry said, moving to grab the groceries on the ground. Harry felt Voldemort’s grip on his shoulder tighten for a moment before he let go, obviously fighting with himself over letting Harry leave his side. 

Taking pity on the unstable man, Harry rushed over to the bags, shooting a hesitant smile at Barty’s still-trembling figure, and bent down to lift the bags. The bags weren’t heavy at all, and Harry had no trouble carrying them into the grand kitchen. 

Voldemort and Barty followed behind him, and Harry knew he was going to have two awkward watchers as he made lunch. The thought made him nervous, as he never really liked people hovering over him while he worked. It made him uncomfortable. 

Harry pulled out the ingredients and set them on the counter before going over to the sink so he could wash his hands. As he pulled up his sleeves, Voldemort let out a choked gasp and suddenly Harry was once again boxed in. 

“Who did this?!” he demanded, his words practically coming out on a hiss. Harry looked at him in confusion before his gaze traveled down to the handprint bruises on his wrist where Barty had held on during their conversation with the muggle woman. 

Shoot.

“Barty!” Voldemort snarled, whirling around to look at the man. “When did this happen? Who did it?” 

“I---”

“I did it!” Harry cried, quickly interjecting the death eater before he could dig his own grave. “I was just nervous… I didn’t realize I was holding myself so tight…” 

Voldemort frowned. “You expect me to believe you did this to yourself?” he demanded, shaking the offending arm. “This handprint is too large for your tiny hands. Why are you lying to me?” 

“I’m not!” Harry lied, his gaze darting away from Voldemort’s. “I-I do that sometimes… When I’m anxious…” 

“Harry…” Voldemort said quietly, his tone stern. “Do not lie to me. I will give you one chance to tell me who did this or I will get angry.” 

Harry felt his insides freeze at the mention of Voldemort getting angry. Harry had seen what the man was like when he was angry, and he couldn’t help but shiver at the thought. Would Voldemort use magic to punish him? Would he use the torture curse on him as he had on Barty? “I… I….” Harry glanced at Barty out of the corner of his eyes and he saw the man nod, resigned to his fate. 

The sight made Harry angry. He scowled at Voldemort, yanking his wrist out of Voldemort’s grasp. “I told you it was me!” he cried. “Why don’t you believe me!” 

“Because it is a lie!” Voldemort answered, equally angry. He stepped forward and Harry instinctually flinched away from him. The motion made Voldemort pause, his eyes narrowing at Harry’s angry but shivering form. “I will not hurt you, precious, I promised. I just want the truth.” 

“You won’t hurt me but you’ll hurt Barty?” Harry asked, scoffing at the question. 

“That’s different,” Voldemort said with a frown. “Barty is my follower, you are my _son_.” 

“It’s not different!” Harry cried. “He’s a person just like I am! Hurting people is despicable!” 

The silence that followed was tense. Harry, hunched in on himself defensibly stood a few feet away from Voldemort’s outstretched hand. Voldemort’s brows were drawn in with confusion as he tried to figure out what to say. Barty sat at the table, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and the Dark Lord. 

Finally, Voldemort spoke, “I hurt people, Harry,” he said softly. “But not you. Never you.” 

“Why?” Harry asked, his hands clenched into fists. “Because I’m your son---”

“Yes.”

“---I’m just a kid whose parents you killed,” Harry snapped. Voldemort’s eyes widened impossibly big, and to the left of him, Barty let out a quiet gasp. “You killed my parents because you wanted to play family. You say you won’t hurt me but I don’t believe you. What happens when you decide you’re tired of me? Will you kill me then? Send me to heaven with my mom and dad---”

“ _Don’t finisssh that sssentence_!” Voldemort hissed, slipping into parseltongue. “ _I will never kill you. I will never hurt you becaussse you are my ssson. Not Jamesss Potter’sss!”_

Harry didn’t want to keep talking about this. The whole conversation left him feeling drained, and all he really wanted to do now was go upstairs and curl up on the bed Voldemort got him and go to sleep. He didn’t even want to cook anymore, he just wanted to be far away from Voldemort. “If I tell you the truth, swear to me you won’t hurt him.” 

“I will not---”

“Swear it or I won’t speak to you ever again.” Harry demanded. Voldemort watched him for a few more seconds, trying to decide if Harry was serious. Whatever he saw in Harry’s expression must have convinced him, though, as he nodded. 

“I swear I will not harm the person who bruised your wrist,” Voldemort said, a bright light and swell of magic accompanying Voldemort’s words. “Now, tell me who it was.” 

“Barty was afraid of a muggle woman who approached us,” Harry said with a sigh. Voldemort’s furious gaze whipped around to Barty’s slouched figure. “He held my wrist too hard. It was an accident.” 

“An accident.” Voldemort parroted, refusing to move his murderous glare from Barty. “He bruised you on _accident_?” 

“Yes,” Harry said firmly. “And you can’t hurt him because you swore.” 

A proud smile spread across Voldemort’s face and it made Harry sick. Somehow the affection the Dark Lord bestowed him with made him forget that man was a murderous pshychopath. A person who took pleasure in other people's pain and misery. “How manipulative, my dear. Well done.” 

Harry was done. He just shook his head and turned around, walking towards the door. “Where are you going?!” Voldemort called, his voice tense. 

“Upstairs,” Harry replied curtly. “I’m tired.” 

“I thought you wanted to cook?” Voldemort asked, and Harry turned around to look at the confused man, his hand resting on the countertop. Harry just sighed. 

“I’m not in the mood.”

* * *

“Where is my godson, Dumbledore?!” Sirius snarled, slamming his hands down on the table. Around him, the Order sat in tense silence. “Where did he go? You promised he would be safe and now he’s missing!” 

“I understand you are upset,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But you must be patient. We are doing everything we can to find young Harry.” 

“If you were doing everything you’d have found him by now!” Sirius snarled. “Instead we have a dead kid and a missing one! What the hell have you been doing?!” 

“The death of Mr. Diggory was tragic and I assure you that we will find Harry before anything happens to him.” Dumbledore said, and Sirius fought the urge to tear his hair out at the vague response. 

“Do you have any leads?” Remus asked, placing a calming hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “Any idea what might have happened?”

“I believe Voldemort has a hand in this,” Dumbledore said, and Sirius froze. “No, I am sure of it.” 

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Are you sure?” Molly asked, a hand coming up to cover her mouth in horror. “But how do you know?” 

“I have no proof yet,” Dumbledore said, and Sirius scoffed. “But I know it was him. Severus, has your mark changed at all?” 

Snape rolled his eyes. “No, Headmaster,” he said with a bored voice. “Potter is probably hiding somewhere. You know how much he loves the attention.” 

Sirius snarled as he lunged for Snape, hauling the slimy potions master up by the collar of his robes. “Harry is a wonderful boy who is missing! He could be dead for all we know, you slimy son of a---”

“That’s enough, Sirius,” Dumbledore called. “We do not know that for a fact. I, personally, have high hopes that Harry is perfectly fine. We must remain level-headed and stick together if we are to find him.” 

Sirius’ fist tightened for a brief moment before he sighed, letting Snape drop carelessly before he returned to his chair. “If You-Know-Who is behind this, Harry is probably dead.” Sirius said tonelessly, his heart clenching at the thought. 

“Don’t say that!” Molly cried, her face reddening. “Harry is such a strong boy! We are going to find him!” 

“How?” Sirius asked. 

“What about Harry’s owl?” Remus asked, and Sirius turned to face his lover curiously. “Hedwig. She’s still at Hogwarts, but when I checked on her she was restless. Maybe she could find him?” 

“That… That could actually work,” Snape said with a sneer. “Surprisingly smart of you, Lupin.” 

“So what, we just send Hedwig off? Tell her to find Harry?” Sirius asked. “How will that help us?” 

“Use the space between your ears for once, Black, and _think_ ,” Snape snapped. “We place a tracking charm on Potter’s owl, tell her to find the damn brat and follow her!” 

“Will it work?” Sirius asked, looking towards Dumbledore. 

Dumbledore was silent for a moment before he smiled. “I believe it might, my dear boy,” he said. “I believe it just might.” 

Sirius, for the first time since Harry’s disappearance, felt relief trickle through him. _Don’t worry Harry_ , he thought, _We’re coming for you!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay new chapter! I'm sorry for the long wait and I hope you enjoyed the new update! Thank you to everyone who left me comments, they really inspire me and make me happy! I hope everyone has a fantastic Thanksgiving (and if you don't celebrate Thanksgiving, I hope you have a great weekend! :)   
> \---------------  
> Voldemort: What just happened?  
> Voldemort: Was this... was this my first experience with moody teens?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Little note: The reason why 'little one' isn't capitalized in this story is because Voldemort is using it as an endearment, while in the other story it is capitalized because that is his _name_. Just thought I'd clear that up. 
> 
> This story was a request, and I do write out requests if you have one (no incest please.) but please be patient. It might take a while for a request to be posted. 
> 
> Thanks so much! Please leave a kudos and a review! :)))


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